Nights in Rodanthe Read online

  Paul hesitated. He didn't have to explain himself, not to her, not to anyone, but as he walked on under the flickering sky on a cold January evening, he suddenly realized that he wanted her to know him--really know him, in all his contradictions.

  "You're right," he began, "because I am talking about two people. I used to be Paul Flanner the hard-driving kid who grew up to be a surgeon. The guy who worked all the time. Or Paul Flanner the husband and father with the big house in Raleigh. But these days, I'm not any of those things. Right now, I'm just trying to figure out who Paul Flanner really is, and to be honest, I'm beginning to wonder if I'll ever find the answer."

  "I think everyone feels that way sometimes. But not many people would be inspired to move to Ecuador as a result."

  "Is that why you think I'm going?"

  They walked in silence for a few steps before Adrienne looked at him. "No," she said, "my guess is that you're going so you can get to know your son."

  Adrienne saw the surprise on his face.

  "It wasn't that hard to figure out," she said. "You hardly mentioned him all night. But if you think it'll help, then I'm glad you're going."

  He smiled. "Well, you're the first. Even Mark wasn't too thrilled when I let him know."

  "He'll get over it."

  "You think so?"

  "I hope so. That's what I tell myself when I'm having trouble with my kids."

  Paul gave a short laugh and motioned over his shoulder. "You want to head back?" he asked.

  "I was hoping you'd say that. My ears are getting cold."

  They circled back, following their own footprints in the sand. Though the moon wasn't visible, the clouds above were shining silver. In the distance, they heard the first rumbling of thunder.

  "What was your ex-husband like?"

  "Jack?" She hesitated, wondering whether to try to change the subject, then decided it didn't matter. Who was he going to tell? "Unlike you," she finally said, "Jack thinks he found himself already. It just happened to be with someone else while we were married."

  "I'm sorry."

  "So am I. Or I was, anyway. Now it's just one of those things. I try not to think about it."

  Paul remembered the tears he'd seen earlier. "Does that work?"

  "No, but I keep trying. I mean, what else can I do?"

  "You could always go to Ecuador."

  She rolled her eyes. "Yeah, wouldn't that be nice? I could come home and say something like 'Sorry, kids, you're on your own. Mom's taking off for a while.' " She shook her head. "No, for the time being, I'm kind of stuck. At least until they're all in college. Right now, they need as much stability as they can get."

  "Sounds like you're a good mother."

  "I try. My kids don't always think so, though."

  "Look at it this way--when they have their own kids, you can get your revenge."

  "Oh, I plan on it. I've already been practicing. How about some potato chips before dinner? No, of course you don't have to clean your room. Sure you can stay up late...."

  Paul smiled again, thinking how much he was enjoying the conversation. Enjoying her. In the silver light of the approaching storm, she looked beautiful, and he wondered how her husband could have left her.

  They made their way back to the house slowly, both of them lost in thought, taking in the sounds and sights, neither feeling the need to speak.

  There was comfort in that, Adrienne thought. Too many people seemed to believe that silence was a void that needed to be filled, even if nothing important was said. She'd experienced enough of that at the endless circuit of cocktail parties that she'd once attended with Jack. Her favorite moments then had been when she'd been able to slip away unobserved and spend a few minutes on a secluded porch. Sometimes there would be someone else out there, someone she didn't know, but when they saw each other, each would nod, as if making a secret pact. No questions, no small talk... agreed.

  Here, on the beach, the feeling returned. The night felt refreshing, the breeze lifting her hair and burnishing her skin. Shadows spread out before her on the sand, moving and shifting, forming into almost recognizable images, then vanishing from sight. The ocean was a swirl of liquid coal. Paul, she knew, was absorbing all those things as well; he also seemed to realize that talking now would somehow ruin it all.

  They walked on in companionable silence, Adrienne more certain with every step that she wanted to spend more time with him. But that wasn't so odd, was it? He was lonely and so was she, solitary travelers enjoying a deserted stretch of sand in an oceanside village called Rodanthe.

  When they reached the house, they stepped inside the kitchen and slipped off their jackets. Adrienne hung hers on the coatrack beside the door along with her scarf; Paul hung his beside it.

  Adrienne brought her hands together and blew through them, seeing Paul look toward the clock, then around the kitchen, as if wondering whether he should call it a night.

  "How about something warm to drink?" she offered quickly. "I can brew a fresh pot of decaf."

  "Do you have any tea?" he asked.

  "I think I saw some earlier. Let me check."

  She crossed the kitchen, opened the cupboard near the sink, then moved assorted goods to the side, liking the fact that they'd have a bit more time together. A box of Earl Grey was on the second shelf, and when she turned around to show it to him, Paul nodded with a smile. She moved around him to get the kettle, then added water, conscious of how close they were standing to each other. When it whistled, she poured two cups and they went to the sitting room.

  They took their places in the rockers again, though the room had changed now that the sun had dropped. If possible, it seemed quieter, more intimate in the darkness.

  As they drank their tea, they talked for another hour about this and that, the easy conversation of casual friends. In time, though, as the evening was winding down, Adrienne found herself confiding in him about her father and the fears she had for the future.

  Paul had heard similar scenarios before; as a doctor, he encountered such stories regularly. But until that moment, they'd been just that: stories. His parents were gone, and Martha's parents were alive and well and living in Florida; but he could tell by Adrienne's expression that her dilemma was something he was glad he wouldn't have to face.

  "Is there something I can do?" he offered. "I know a lot of specialists who could review his chart and see if there's a way to help him."

  "Thank you for the offer, but no, I've done all that. The last stroke really set him back. Even if there was something that might help a little, I don't think there's any chance that he could function without round-the-clock care."

  "What are you going to do?"

  "I don't know. I'm hoping Jack will change his mind about coming up with additional financial support for my dad, and he might. He and my father were pretty close for a while. But if not, I guess I'll look for a full-time position so I can pay for it."

  "Can't the state do anything?"

  As soon as he said the words, he knew what her answer would be.

  "He might be eligible for assistance, but the good places have long waiting lists, and most of them are a couple of hours away, so I wouldn't be able to see him regularly. And the not-so-good places? I couldn't do that to him."

  She paused, her thoughts flashing between the past and present. "When he retired," she finally said, "they had a small party at the plant for him, and I remember thinking that he was going to miss going in every day. He'd started working there when he was fifteen, and in all the years he spent with them, he took only two sick days. I figured it out once--if you added up all the hours he spent working there, it would be fifteen years of his life, but when I asked him about it, he said he wasn't going to miss it at all. That he had big plans now that he was finished."

  Adrienne's expression softened. "What he meant was that he was planning to do the things he wanted instead of the things he had to do. Spending time with me, with the grandkids, with his books, or with fri
ends. He deserved a few easy years after all he'd been through, and then..." She trailed off before meeting Paul's eyes. "You would like him if you met him. Even now."

  "I'm sure I would. But would he like me?"

  Adrienne smiled. "My dad likes everyone. Before his strokes, there was nothing more enjoyable to him than listening to people talk and learning what they were all about. He was endlessly patient, and because of that, people always opened up to him. Even strangers. They would tell him things they wouldn't tell anyone else because they knew he could be trusted." She hesitated. "You want to know what I remember most, though?"

  Paul raised his eyebrows slightly.

  "It was something he used to say to me, ever since I was a little girl. No matter how good or bad I'd done in anything, no matter if I was happy or sad, my dad would always give me a hug and tell me, 'I'm proud of you.' "

  She was quiet for a moment. "I don't know what it is about those words, but they always moved me. I must have heard them a million times, but every time he said them, they left me with the feeling that he'd love me no matter what. It's funny, too, because as I got older, I used to joke with him about it. But even then, when I was getting ready to leave, he'd say it anyway, and I'd still get all mushy inside."

  Paul smiled. "He sounds like a remarkable man."

  "He is," she said, and sat up straighter in her chair. "And because of that, I'll work it out so he won't have to leave. It's the best place in the world for him. It's close to home, and not only is the care exceptional, but they treat him like a person there, not just a patient. He deserves a place like that, and it's the least I can do."

  "He's lucky he has you as a daughter to watch out for him."

  "I'm lucky, too." As she stared toward the wall, her eyes seemed to lose their focus. Then she shook her head, suddenly realizing what she'd been saying. "But listen to me going on and on. I'm sorry."

  "No reason to be sorry. I'm glad you did."

  With a smile, she leaned forward slightly. "What do you miss the most about being married?"

  "I take it we're changing the subject."

  "I figured it was your turn to share."

  "It's the least I could do?"

  She shrugged. "Something along those lines. Now that I've spilled my guts, it's your turn."

  Paul gave a mock sigh and gazed up at the ceiling. "Okay, what I miss." He brought his hands together. "I guess it's knowing that someone is waiting for me when I get home from work. Usually, I wouldn't be home until late, and sometimes Martha would already be in bed. But the knowledge that she was there seemed natural and reassuring, like the way things should be. How about you?"

  Adrienne set her teacup on the table between them.

  "The usual things. Someone to talk to, to share meals with, those quick morning kisses before either of us had brushed our teeth. But to be honest, with the kids, I'm more worried about what they're missing than what I am right now. I miss having Jack around, for their sake. I think little kids need a mom more than they need a dad, but as teenagers, they need their dads. Especially girls. I don't want my daughter thinking that men are jerks who walk out on their family, but how am I going to teach her that if her own father did it?"

  "I don't know."

  Adrienne shook her head. "Do men think about those things?"

  "The good ones do. Like in everything else."

  "How long were you married?"

  "Thirty years. You?"

  "Eighteen."

  "Between the two of us, you'd think we'd have figured it out, huh?"

  "What? The key to happily ever after? I don't think there is one anymore."

  "No, I guess you're right."

  From the hallway, they heard the grandfather clock beginning to chime. When it stopped, Paul rubbed the back of his neck, trying to work out the soreness from the drive. "I think I'm ready to turn in. Early day tomorrow."

  "I know," she agreed, "I was just thinking the same thing."

  But they didn't get up right away. Instead, they sat together for a few more minutes with the same silence they'd shared on the beach. Occasionally, he glanced toward her, but he would turn away before she caught him.

  With a sigh, Adrienne got up from her chair and pointed toward his cup. "I can bring that into the kitchen. I'm going that way."

  He smiled as he handed it over. "I had a good time tonight."

  "So did I."

  A moment later, Adrienne watched as Paul headed up the stairs before she turned away and began closing up the Inn.

  In her room, she slipped out of her clothes and opened her suitcase, looking for a pair of pajamas. As she did, she caught the reflection of herself in the mirror. Not too bad, but let's be honest here--she looked her age. Paul, she thought, had been sweet when he'd said she'd needed nothing done.

  It had been a long time since someone had made her feel attractive.

  She put on a pair of pajamas and crawled into bed. Jean had a stack of magazines on the stand, and she browsed the articles for a few minutes before turning out the light. In the darkness, she couldn't stop thinking about the evening she'd just spent. The conversations replayed endlessly in her mind; she could see the way the corners of his mouth formed into a crooked smile whenever she'd said something he found humorous. For an hour, she tossed and turned, unable to sleep, growing frustrated, and completely unaware of the fact that in the room upstairs, Paul Flanner was doing exactly the same thing.

  Nine

  Despite closing the shutters and drapes to keep out the morning light, Paul woke with Friday's dawn, and he spent ten minutes stretching the ache from his body.

  Swinging open the shutters, he took in the morning. There was a deep haze over the water, and the skies were gunmetal gray. Cumulous clouds raced along, rolling parallel with the shore. The storm, he thought, would be here before nightfall, more likely by midafternoon.

  He sat on the edge of the bed as he slipped into his running gear, then added a windbreaker over the top. From the drawer, he removed an extra pair of socks and slipped them on his hands. Then, after padding down the stairs, he looked around. Adrienne wasn't up, and he felt a short stab of disappointment at not seeing her, then suddenly wondered why it mattered. He unlocked the door, and a minute later he was trudging along, letting his body warm up before he moved into a steadier pace.

  From her bedroom, Adrienne heard him descend the creaking steps. Sitting up, she pushed off the covers and slipped her feet into a pair of slippers, wishing she'd at least had some coffee ready for Paul when he awoke. She wasn't sure he would have wanted any before his run, but she could at least have made the offer.

  Outside, Paul's muscles and joints were beginning to loosen and he quickened his stride. It wasn't anywhere near the pace he'd run in his twenties or thirties, but it was steady and refreshing.

  Running had never been simply exercise for him. He'd reached the point where running wasn't difficult at all; it seemed to take no more energy to jog five miles than it did to read the paper. Instead, he viewed it as a form of meditation, one of the few times he could be alone.

  It was a wonderful morning to run. Though it had rained during the night and he could see drops on the windshields of cars, the shower must have passed through the area quickly, because most of the roads had already dried. Tendrils of mist lingered in the dawn and moved in ghostly procession from one small home to the next. He would have liked to run on the beach since he didn't often have that opportunity, but he'd decided to use his run to find the home of Robert Torrelson instead. He ran along the highway, passing through downtown, then turned at the first corner, his eyes taking in the scene.

  In his estimation, Rodanthe was exactly what it appeared to be: an old fishing village riding the water's edge, a place where modern life had been slow in coming. Every home was made of wood, and though some were in better repair than others, with small, well-tended yards and a thin patch of dirt where bulbs would blossom in the spring, he could see evidence of the harshness of coastal
life everywhere he looked. Even homes that were no more than a dozen years old were decaying. Fences and mailboxes had small holes eaten away by the weather, paint had peeled, tin roofs were streaked with long, wide rows of rust. Scattered in the front yards were various items of everyday life in this part of the world: skiffs and broken boat engines, fishing nets used as decoration, ropes and chains used to keep strangers at bay.

  Some homes were no more than shacks, and the walls seemed precariously balanced, as if the next strong wind might topple them over. In some cases, the front porches were sagging and had been propped up by an assortment of utilitarian items to keep them from giving way completely: concrete blocks or stacked bricks; two-by-fours that protruded from below like short chopsticks.

  But there was activity here, even in the dawn, even in those homes that looked abandoned. As he ran, he saw smoke billowing from chimneys and watched men and women covering windows with plywood. The sound of hammering had begun to fill the air.

  He turned at the next block, checked the street sign, and ran on. A few minutes later, he turned onto the street where Robert Torrelson lived. Robert Torrelson, he knew, lived at number thirty-four.

  He passed number eighteen, then twenty, and raised his eyes, looking ahead. A couple of the neighbors stopped their work and watched him as he jogged by, their eyes wary. A moment later, he reached Robert Torrelson's home, trying not to be obvious as he glanced toward it.

  It was a home like most of the others along the street: not exactly well tended, but not a shack, either. Rather, it was somewhere in between--a sort of stalemate between man and nature in their battle over the house. At least half a century old, the house was single storied with a tin roof; without gutters to divert runoff, the rain of a thousand storms had streaked the white paint with gray. On the porch were two weathered rockers angled toward each other. Around the windows, he could see a lone strand of Christmas lights.

  Toward the back of the property was a small outbuilding with the front doors propped open. Inside were two workbenches, covered with nets and fishing rods, chests and tools. Two large grappling hooks were leaning against the wall, and he could see a yellow rain slicker hanging on a peg, just inside. From the shadows behind it, a man emerged, carrying a bucket.